


so much for serenity

by Twice_before_Friday



Series: Altered & Extended - season 1 [4]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Anxiety, BDSM (no sex), Episode: s01e04 Designer Complicity, Flogging, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Stand Alone, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-19 11:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22176931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday/pseuds/Twice_before_Friday
Summary: Malcolm’s jaw clenched and unclenched as he bit back saying something he knew he'd regret. He was still on edge and practically vibrating after his disastrous appointment at the therapist's that morning, and he could feel the urge to lash out and say something hurtful and irreversible growing and pulsing inside of him.He didn’t understand how Gil could shoot him down so offhandedly when he knew, he knew, how important it must be to Malcolm for him to even ask. For 20 years Gil had been saying that he was there to help, that Malcolm could always come to him, but now that he needed Gil’s help to find out if his mother was complicit in the murder of 23 innocent people, Gil just casually tosses out that his fucking hands are tied?orMalcolm needs some help to blow off steam before he does something stupid
Series: Altered & Extended - season 1 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1557952
Comments: 20
Kudos: 76





	so much for serenity

**Author's Note:**

> All works in this series are stand alone, so you don't need to have read the others to read this one. 
> 
> This was inspired by Malcolm’s comment in a later episode where he said Jung would have called him a masochist. I felt like he was so wound up after his visit to Gabrielle where he broke the glass, followed by his aggressive approach with Axle at the crime scene, topped off with Gil refusing to get him the tape of his mother’s interview, that he maybe he needed some help to cool down.
> 
> I will be the first to admit that I have absolutely no knowledge of BDSM aside from what I’ve read in some very sexy stories here on AO3, and what Google told me as I was researched while I was writing this story, so any mistakes are entirely my own. And if I’ve portrayed something poorly or inaccurately, I apologize in advance.
> 
> I’ve taken the approach that Malcolm is a non-sexual masochist in this story - basically that he likes the pain but doesn’t get off on it. So there is no sexual content in the story, but there is whipping and flogging, so if that’s not your jam, look elsewhere. 
> 
> For everyone else, please enjoy Malcolm taking a beating 😊

_I need access to The Surgeon’s case files. The video interviews from the night he was arrested. All I want to see is my mother’s interview. What she said, how she said it._

_Your mom? What kind of rabbit hole are you going down? NYPD is never going to release those tapes for personal reasons. My hands are tied. Come on, I’ll take you home._

\---

Malcolm’s jaw clenched and unclenched as he bit back saying something he knew he'd regret. He was still on edge and practically vibrating after his disastrous appointment at the therapist's that morning, and he could feel the urge to lash out and say something hurtful and irreversible growing and pulsing inside of him.

He didn’t understand how Gil could shoot him down so offhandedly when he knew, he _knew_ , how important it must be to Malcolm for him to even ask. For 20 years Gil had been saying that he was there to help, that Malcolm could always come to him, but now that he needed Gil’s help to find out if his mother was complicit in the murder of 23 innocent people, Gil just casually tosses out that his fucking hands are tied?

Malcolm crushed his hands into tight fists as he remained motionless on the sidewalk, feeling the cuts on his hand ripping open as he squeezed. The searing pain and the warmth of his blood as it saturated the gauze grounded him and kept him from completely losing his shit on the man who he'd always thought of like a father.

Gil had made his way over to the driver’s side door and was looking at Malcolm expectantly, waiting for him to move towards the car.

“I’ll walk,” Malcolm ground out through his teeth as he turned abruptly on his heel and strode away.

“Bright? Bright!” Gil called out as the younger man marched off without so much as a backwards glance.

Malcolm ignored his mentor and didn’t relax his balled-up fists until he had turned the corner and was out of sight of the man. He soldiered on at a brisk pace until he was able to turn into a narrow laneway beside a small boutique shop, his thoughts swirling in a red haze that was growing out of control. Like a caged animal, he paced back and forth in the small area for a moment before he stopped and slammed his palms against the brick wall, holding them there as he dropped his chin to his chest. It was only a handful of steps away from the traffic and pedestrians and bustling noise that were all adding to his agitation, but it was enough that he could finally manage to gulp in some air.

His blood was boiling and he could feel the vein in his forehead throbbing while his heart pounded aggressively against his ribs. He knew he was overreacting to Gil's refusal to help and he was trying to calm himself down, but everything was building and compounding and the weight of it all was crushing him.

He slid down onto his haunches, resting his forehead against the cool brick as he forced himself to breathe deeply. In and out. In and out. Eventually he calmed himself enough rise to his feet and fumble through his pockets for his phone. He scrolled through his contacts as he once again paced between the buildings, pulling up the contact for an old friend that he hadn’t seen in over half a dozen years. His thumb hesitated over the call button for a moment before he jabbed the number and brought the phone to his ear. It rang twice before a low voice answered.

“Hello?”

Bright bit his lip, debating the wisdom of what he was about to do. But his body was still thrumming, feeling like there was a low grade electrical current pumping through his veins, and he knew he couldn’t continue to function like that. More importantly, Gil wouldn’t let him keep working cases like that, and that just wasn’t an option. He needed answers but had no way to get them, so the next best thing was to burn off the stress hormones that were currently flooding his system.

“Brian, hey. Um, it’s Malcolm. Malcolm Bright,” he paused, unsure how to broach the subject after so many years.

“Malcolm Bright,” the voice on the other end chuckled. “That’s a blast from the past. How the hell are you?”

“Uh. Well. Honestly? Not too good right at the moment. I, uh, I was wondering if you still…” Malcolm trailed off, feeling stupid for calling. For needing it.

“I think I could make some time for you,” Brian said with a smile that Malcolm could hear through the line. “When did you have in mind?”

“As soon as possible.”

Another chuckle answered his quick response. “I’ll text you my address. I can meet you in 30 minutes.”

“Thank you,” Malcolm breathed out. He already felt just a little bit better, knowing what was about to happen. He hung up and walked back to the street, hailing a cab as he waited for the address to come to through. His heart skipped a beat when the text came in and he scrubbed his hand over his face as the building anticipation warred with the anxiety and anger from the morning, leaving him feeling shaky and marginally nauseous in the back of the cab.

He pulled up to the address about 40 minutes later, absently paying the driver before climbing out and staring at the building in front of him. He took a deep breath then walked up the handful of steps to the door and hit the buzzer for Brian's place on the top floor. He was soon making his way up to Brian’s apartment and, with a shaky hand, knocked on his door.

Brian opened the door with an easy smile as his eyes swept over Malcolm. He stepped to the side and gestured for Malcolm to come in, leading him into the living room of a rather spacious and tastefully decorated apartment.

“Can I get you a drink?” Brian asked, eyeing Malcolm’s stiff posture and shaking and bloodied hand.

Malcolm flushed and immediately jammed his hands into his pockets. “No, thank you.”

They stood for a moment, staring at one another in silence, each getting a read on the other after many years without contact. Malcolm found that the years had been kind to Brian, the small signs of aging around his mouth and eyes adding character to an already handsome face. He had been fit all those years ago, but seemed even more defined now, even with a t-shirt and open button-up covering his powerful frame. Malcolm took in the jeans and bare feet and smirked at how it took him back to all those years ago. Apparently Brian's dress sense hadn’t changed turning their time apart.

“What do you want Malcolm?” Brian asked finally, apparently deciding to leave the small talk until later.

Malcolm cleared his throat and kept his eyes on Brian’s feet as he shifted uncomfortably where he stood. “I want you to hurt me,” he finally said, almost a whisper.

Brian took a few steps forward and stopped right in front him, close enough that Malcolm could feel the heat of his body through his clothes. His hand darted out without warning, wrapping under Malcolm’s jaw, tilting his head up to force him to make eye contact. Brian was nearly 6 inches taller than Malcolm, so at such close quarters, Malcolm's head was angled quite far back. He inhaled sharply at the sudden movement, but locked eyes with Brian, knowing that Brian wouldn’t do this unless Malcolm was sure it was what he really wanted.

“I want you to hurt me,” he said once again, this time with an air of decisiveness that surprised even himself.

Brian chuckled as one side of his mouth quirked up in a half smile, but still he tightened his grip on Malcolm’s jaw. “I don’t suppose your preferences have changed over the years?” He asked, eyes drifting to Malcolm’s mouth.

Malcolm shook his head, or at least tried to, but Brian’s grip was too firm for him to have much range of motion. “No, sorry.”

“Hmmm. That’s a shame,” Brian said as he released his hold and took a step back. “I’ll be honest, Malcolm, I always hoped I’d get the chance to fuck you. But we can keep this platonic, as always. If you ever change your mind though…”

Malcolm huffed out a laugh, and it was the first real break in tension he'd been feeling all morning. “You'd be the first person I'd call. But I imagine that if it hasn’t happened yet, after all this time, I don’t think it’s likely that this will ever become sexual for me.”

“I know,” Brian smiled warmly at him. “So let’s go beat the shit out of you, hmm?”

A fission of excitement shot through Malcolm and Brian laughed as Malcolm’s eyes lit up. He led him down a short hall to a large bedroom that had been outfitted as a playroom. Some of the items, such as the St. Andrew’s Cross and the leather swing that was hanging in the corner, Malcolm recognized from his time with Brian all those years ago. Other items had been upgraded or added in. His old sawhorse-style spanking bench had been replaced by a high-end bondage bench, and a tall but narrow cage along with an intimidating looking fucking-machine were new additions since the last time Malcolm had seen Brian. There were various floggers, whips and restraints on the walls, and a large cabinet off to the side that Malcolm knew would contain various accessories and toys.

As he surveyed the space, Malcolm thought back to his previous visits to Brian, in a far more budget-friendly apartment than this one.

Back in university, Malcolm, like most red-blooded men, took the opportunity to experiment and find what he liked. He was immediately drawn to the world of BDSM, but soon realized that he derived no sexual pleasure from pain. It did, however, seem to calm his racing mind. All the screaming voices in his head, all the repressed memories that would try to break through in flashes of terror, all of the manic energy that kept him dialed up to 11 most of the time just… stopped whenever he was tied up and beaten. And for the first time since that fateful night when he discovered the girl in the box, he felt at peace.

It took some time and some decidedly unpleasant experiences before he found Brian, who was about a dozen years older than Malcolm and had the experience and patience to walk Malcolm through the ins and outs of BDSM and find what worked for him, while not once pressuring him into anything sexual. Malcolm felt safe with him from their first session, and still felt that security with him now, years later.

Malcolm's degree in psychology left him well versed in the suppositions and conjecture revolving around masochism, and it actually pissed him off that he fit so neatly into the line of thinking that it was aggression turned inward because of excessive guilt feelings. But he had stopped psychoanalyzing his masochistic tendencies long ago. It helped, and that was all that mattered. Until, one day many years ago, he decided that he could cope on his own if he just tried a little harder and stuck to a regimen of yoga and exercise and a battery of prescription medications. Because those were all far more socially acceptable than being strapped down and whipped until he screamed his throat raw.

But lately, with his flashbacks becoming more vivid and his nightmares becoming so much worse, he had been reconsidering his choice to abandon the only thing that had brought him solace in the past. After he threw himself out the window during his night terror he debated if he should call Gabrielle or Brian, but his mother’s presence in his apartment swayed him to call his therapist rather than a dom.

It wasn’t that he ashamed. He wasn’t. He was just trying so damn hard to be normal, and normal people didn’t need to be beaten in order to function. It’s why he stopped seeing Brian in the first place. They left on good terms, but both were sad to see the relationship come to an end.

“Strip,” Brian commanded, breaking Malcolm from his memories.

Malcolm shrugged off his jacket and his fingers had moved to start undoing his buttons before he even processed what he was doing. He quickly removed his shirt, shoes, socks and pants, stacking everything in a tidy pile beside the door, before turning to face Brian, wearing only his snug black underwear.

Brian casually removed his own button up and t-shirt, leaving him in just his dark wash jeans, slung low on his hips. Malcolm wasn't really into men, but even he could recognize that Brian was beautiful, all sculpted muscles and flat planes, topped off with twinkling eyes and a warm smile.

Brian moved to the cabinet and opened a drawer, pulling out a set of worn leather wrist restraints in a deep brown that made Malcolm think of a warm scotch, along with a thick metal carabiner to attach them together. He strode over to Malcolm and waited expectantly for him to hold out his arms, which he did immediately.

As Brian fastened the restraints around Malcolm’s wrists, Malcolm could feel the tension slowly start to slide away. He didn’t realize how tightly he had been holding his jaw until he finally unclenched it and felt the ache as he shifted it left and right. He felt a slight pang of regret as he realized how much he had missed Brian’s deft movements to get him ready for a session as he felt him tighten the cuffs and snap on the carabiner between the D-rings of both cuffs, spinning the lock closed and testing everything with a series of tugs.

Once he was pleased, he stood in front of Malcolm and waited for Malcolm to look up from his wrists into his eyes.

“Same rules as before? Same safeword?” Brian asked.

Malcolm rolled his eyes. He wouldn’t use a safeword and they both knew it. Brian had confessed to him once that Malcolm actually scared him a little. It wasn’t just that Brian had to be especially in tune with Malcolm when they played, because he knew Malcolm wouldn’t stop him even if he blew right past his limits. It was also the idea that Malcolm could easily end up with someone that wouldn’t hold back, someone that would keep hitting and hitting, and he could wind up seriously injured. Or worse.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me,” Brian growled, emphasizing his point by wrapping one large hand around Malcolm’s throat and squeezing ever so slightly. Malcolm's hands instinctively shot up, wrapping his fingers around Brian's wrist, but, at a reproving look from Brian, he slowly unwrapped his fingers and dropped his hands. Brian hummed approvingly before pressing against Malcolm’s throat, forcing him back a few steps.

Once Malcolm was stopped where Brian obviously wanted him, he glanced up and noticed a heavy-duty swing hanger mounted to the ceiling. Brian dropped his hand and told Malcolm to stay while he went back to the cabinet and pulled out a length of rope and a small step stool. Malcolm smirked as he remembered a conversation from years ago when he tried to sell Brian on the amount of time and effort he would save by installing a pulley system, but Brian liked rope, and quite frankly, was a bit of an artist when practicing shibari, and that love of rope carried over into many of his other activities.

Within minutes, Brian had Malcolm suspended from the ceiling, arms stretched taut above his head with a beautifully knotted piece of rope attaching the carabiner between the restraints to the hook in the ceiling. He had left Malcolm only enough slack in the rope so that he was forced to remain on the balls of his feet in order to keep his shoulders from taking all of his weight.

Brian moved the step stool to the side and walked over to the wall of impact instruments, weighing his options. He settled on an oiled leather flogger with dozens of falls, knowing that Malcolm enjoyed the heavy thudding feeling to start, before moving on to something that would sting and break the skin.

Malcolm watched with anticipation as Brian stood in front of the wall, debating his selection. When he saw the flogger that he chose, his breath left him in a stuttered whoosh. Watching as Brian made his way back to him, the flogger looking deceptively harmless in his casual grasp, Malcolm's thoughts narrowed into the present, slowly letting go of his mother’s presence in his dreams, his failed visit to the therapist, Gil’s refusal to help him. The anticipation as Brian circled around him, waiting for that first blow to land, left him no room to focus on anything but his body and what Brian was about to do to it.

Finally, Brian stopped directly in front of him and landed the first hit on Malcolm’s right pectoral, followed quickly by second to his left. It was relatively light compared to what Malcolm usually liked, obviously a warmup after so many years apart. Malcolm knew that Brian wouldn’t hit him at full strength to start, wanting to make sure that Malcolm still had the same tolerance and desire for pain that he used to. But even though there was no actual pain yet, the blows felt like heaven to Malcolm after so many years without. He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath as his lips quirked up at the corners.

“I’ve missed that smile,” Brian said as he moved to strike the front of Malcolm’s thighs repeatedly with the same moderate degree of force.

It wasn’t long before he circled behind Malcolm and landed a harder blow on Malcolm’s covered ass, then two more in quick succession on the back of his thighs, each harder than the last. Malcolm grunted at the last hit, as Brian was finally starting to put some power behind the blows.

Brian alternated a hard series of hits between his left and right thighs and buttocks until he noticed Malcolm’s body flinching away, then, without a moment’s reprieve, began raining powerful blows around his shoulder blades. He made sure there was no rhythm or reason to which side he hit or how long he waited between blows, ensuring Malcolm had no way to anticipate where or when the next blow would land. Malcolm was biting back grunts as the strikes became more forceful and eventually Brian stopped and moved in front of him.

“It’s fully soundproofed in here, Malcolm. Feel free to scream if you want.”

Malcolm opened his mouth to reply, but before he could get a word out, Brian began a figure of 8 pattern on his chest with the flogger. There was far less power behind it, leaving him with a stinging across his chest, rather than the deep throbbing on his back, butt and thighs, but the sudden change was unexpected and delicious and the sting felt even more intense because of it, especially when the falls landed on his sensitive nipples.

Brian only spent a short time on Malcolm’s front before circling around and around him, swatting randomly as he walked, once again varying the speed and intensity of the blows. Malcolm was rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, as his body simultaneously tried to get away and closer to the source of the pain. After several minutes of inconsistent hits, Brian stopped behind Malcolm and stood silently. It took nearly a minute for Malcolm’s muscles to stop contracting and releasing in preparation for the next hit. Once he realized that Brian had stopped for more than just a pause, Malcolm started to twist his body around to see what he was doing.

“Stop,” Brian commanded.

Malcolm resumed his position facing forward and waited. And waited. His breathing sped into rapid pants as the suspense grew, leaving Malcolm itching for more. And he knew that Brian would make it worth the wait.

One of the reasons he had always loved coming to Brian was how strong he was. He was powerfully built and confident in his ability to wield his strength. Some of the other doms Malcolm had gone to were unwilling to hurt him the way he wanted. Brian was not. And he knew Brian would often finish his initial beating with an excruciatingly exquisite concentrated attack before moving onto the next implement. 

The anticipation hung heavy in the air, pressing down on Malcolm, but after what felt like hours, Malcolm's body slowly began to relax in the stillness of the room. As soon as the tension in his muscles began to ease, as soon as his breathing slowed to an even pace, Brian bombarded Malcolm’s upper back with an intensive and sustained beating. Malcolm yelped and jerked forward as the shock of the first fierce blow landed just below his shoulder blade.

The blows landed hard and fast as Brian used all of his considerable strength to relentlessly pummel Malcolm. By the fourth hit, Malcolm was grunting as his muscles began to throb. By the 11th hit, he was shouting as the ache bled through his muscles and into his bones. By the 18th hit he was screaming as the tears flooded down his face. By the 26th hit he wasn’t entirely occupying his body anymore. Which was when Brian finally stopped.

Malcolm was no longer able to support himself on the balls of his feet and was hanging limply from the restraints, his writs and shoulders screaming in protest, but he didn’t even notice. He was floating in a haze of endorphin fueled pleasure/pain.

Brian tossed the flogger on the counter and moved in front of Malcolm.

“Check in with me Malcolm,” Brian said softly, cupping Malcolm’s face to tilt his head up slightly, smiling gently at the nearly blissful look on Malcolm’s face, even as the tears continued to fall and his breath came out in hitching gasps.

“Green,” Malcolm said a little dreamily. “Oh God. Green.”

Brian laughed as he stroked the hair back from Malcolm’s face. “Thought so. Do you want me to keep going, or do you want to be done now?”

“Mmm. Keep going. Please.”

Brian gently released his face, watching Malcolm’s eyes close as his head fell slowly to his chest, before he moved back to the wall of implements, reaching immediately for the black leather bull whip that Malcolm had always favoured for its harsh sting and ability to break the skin quite easily. He drifted back to stand in front of Malcolm and remained there, standing patiently with the whip curled up in his hand, until Malcolm finally noticed his presence and raised his head, blinking owlishly.

“You look like you’re doing pretty good already. You sure you want this?” Brian asked.

Malcolm nodded to Brian, eyes glassy and red from crying, his face a mess of tear tracks, and a dopey smile that almost made him look drunk.

Brian was starting to have reservations, recognizing that Malcolm was in no fit state to make rational decisions, even though he knew that it was what Malcolm wanted. Even in his current state, Malcolm could read the hesitation in Brian’s posture and facial expressions and pulled himself together enough to regain his footing and shake off a bit of the fog.

“Please, Brian. I need it,” he stated. “I need the pain right now, but I need the bruises and the cuts for later.”

“5 lashes,” Brian offered.

“20,” Malcolm countered, though a part of him wanted 200. Or 2000. Wanted Brian to keep going until he had tore through skin and muscle and bone, until he ripped him apart and there was nothing of him left.

“10.”

“15, but not all of them have to bleed?” Malcolm heard the pleading tone to his voice and thought he ought to have been embarrassed about it, but he just couldn’t bring himself to care.

He could see when Brian made the decision to give in before the man said a word, and he let out a relieved breath, sagging in his restraints once again with a whispered, “thank you.”

Brian ran a hand through Malcolm’s hair once more before moving to take up a sturdy stance behind him, leaving the perfect amount of space for the whip he had chosen. With a practiced flick of the wrist the whip struck Malcolm, far more gently than he wanted, a red welt rising as the leather kissed his skin. The light sting was nowhere near enough, but he patiently waited, knowing Brian wouldn’t let him down.

The next crack of the whip was better. He could imagine the marks that would be appearing on his back. Could feel the sting a little more intensely, especially layered as it was over the bruises that were forming from the flogging.

He expected the next hit to be another gradual increase in force, but Brian surprised him with a powerful lash that had him screaming at the impact as he felt his skin split open and the heat of his blood as it welled up and dripped down his back. He didn’t even have a chance to catch his breath before the next lash, lighter than the last but crossed diagonally over it, intensified the burning feeling across his back.

Brian alternated mid-strength hits with fierce lashes that drew blood and left Malcolm keening for the remaining 11 strikes. By the time the final blow fell, Malcolm was crying so hard he could hardly catch his breath, his nose dripping and mixing with his tears as they cascaded down his cheeks, leaving his face a mess.

Brian immediately went over to the cabinet and placed the whip with the flogger to be cleaned later and grabbed a pack of baby wipes to clean Malcolm’s face, knowing how embarrassed he would be about it when he came back to himself. He carefully tilted his head up and brought the first wipe across Malcolm’s nose and chin, pulling new wipes to run down the bridge of his nose and over his cheeks, the gentle motion helping to calm his shuddering breathing.

Brian fought the urge to pull Malcolm down and cradle him in his arms, wanting to comfort him as he came back to himself. It went against his nature to keep him hanging there as he cleaned his wounds, but it was an agreement they had come to many years ago. Malcolm couldn’t handle affection after a session. The one time they tried nearly broke him. Malcolm didn’t even want his wounds tended to, but Brian had insisted that it was non-negotiable. So they had perfected a system where Malcolm stayed restrained while Brian treated the cuts and bruises, leaving Malcolm unaware for much of the aftercare, allowing him to be cared for without getting overwhelmed.

Brian tossed the used wipes in the garbage and grabbed the first aid kit from the cupboard, placing it on the step stool and setting it beside Malcolm’s limp form. After washing his hands at the small sink in the corner and snapping on a pair of latex gloves, he started cleaning and bandaging the cuts on Malcolm’s back.

Malcolm sucked in a breath through his teeth at the first swipe of the antiseptic wipes over his skin, but quickly embraced the burning sensation, letting it add to his overall experience.

None of the cuts were deep enough to require stitches, so Brian merely applied antiseptic ointment and butterfly closures for the deepest lacerations and taped gauze over the parts that were likely to seep onto Malcolm’s shirt.

Malcolm whimpered a number of times during the process, but always when Brian was handling him too tenderly, never from the pain of the injuries. Whenever that happened, Brian would press his thumb firmly into one of the livid red welts on Malcolm’s back to calm him down.

Brian took advantage of Malcolm’s bound state in order to climb the step stool and clean and dress the cuts on his hand as well, applying ointment and wrapping new gauze around his hand before slowly loosening the rope, ensuring Malcolm had gotten his feet underneath him before fully releasing the rope and climbing off the stool.

Malcolm swayed where he stood but kept his balance as Brian removed the restraints and stowed them and the first aid kit away, then picked up Malcolm’s clothes and led him into his bedroom, maneuvering him carefully (but not too gently) to sit on his bed and placing his clothes on top of a chair in the corner.

When Brian picked up a bottle of water off the bedside table and handed it to Malcolm, he just sat blinking at it for a moment, until Brian cracked the lid off and pressed the bottle to Malcolm’s mouth. At the first splash of cool liquid over his raw throat, he seemed to come back to himself a little, grasping at the bottle and drinking greedily, polishing off the bottle in a matter of seconds.

“Lay down a bit,” Brian said. “Take as long as you need. I’ll be in the living room.”

Malcolm gingerly laid himself on his side, pulling his knees up to his chest, and Brian slipped the throw blanket from the foot of the bed over him. As he pulled it up over Malcolm’s shoulders, he absently reached out to card his hand through Malcolm’s hair, yanking his hand back at the last minute as he remembered Malcolm’s aversion to touch after a session. As Brian made his way to the door, it came so quietly that he almost didn’t hear it.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’ll be fine. This is about what you need.” He closed the door quietly behind him as he left the room.

Malcolm lay floating in his newfound calm for quite some time, delightfully suspended somewhere between awake and asleep, before he felt alert enough to start moving. He moved slowly, gaining his equilibrium before rising to his feet and stretching languidly. He groaned as he rolled his shoulders and swung his arms across his chest, the lacerations licking a trail of flame across his back. Beyond that, deeper, was the bruising ache of the flogged muscles throughout his body. It felt amazing.

He slowly dressed, savouring the various aches and pains that flared in his muscles and danced over his skin as he moved his body. It felt as though he were wrapped in a warm blanket of serenity as he experienced a degree of calm that he hadn’t felt in so many years. He practically floated down the hall to the living room, finding Brian seated on the sofa with a beer, watching a football game with the sound on low, obviously listening for any sounds of distress from down the hall.

Brian smiled up at Malcolm as he walked into the room more relaxed than he'd ever seen him look. There was an ease in the way he moved that shouldn’t have even been possible after the beating he'd just took, and a tranquil look on his face that Brian wished could always be there. Happy suited him.

Malcolm poured himself onto the sofa beside Brian in a boneless heap, earning a burst of laughter from the older man.

“Good?” Brian asked unnecessarily.

“So very good,” Malcolm smiled up at him. But as he looked at Brian his eyebrows drew together, recognizing the tension in his face.

“Don’t. I’m fine,” Brian said, already missing the dopey smile.

Malcolm scooted closer to Brian, picking up the man's arm and draping it over his shoulder as he settled in against his side, asking, “So what are we watching?”

“What are you doing?” Brian asked.

“Watching the game,” Malcolm smirked, but at Brian’s confused look added, “Look. You gave me exactly what I needed and you get nothing from it,” at Brian’s incredulous look, Malcolm rolled his eyes and continued “Okay, not nothing, but you’re not getting off and you’re not getting to perform the level of aftercare that you need in order to feel complete. I’m not going to have sex with you, but I think I can handle some couch cuddles. That should at least assuage the protective and nurturing side of your dominant personality, right?”

Brian shook his head in fond exasperation but settled back against the couch, holding Malcolm tucked safely against his side and took a swing of his beer. They stayed that way until halftime when Malcolm finally slid out from under Brian’s arm and got to his feet.

“I need to get going,” Malcolm said, looking down at Brian where he looked entirely at ease on the sofa. “Thank you. My therapist told me this morning that I’m in crisis and suggested adjusting my meds. Honestly, I was sort of spiraling, but I feel better now. That’s thanks to you.”

“Glad I could help,” Brian smiled up at him, and Malcolm could tell he meant it. “I hope it won’t be so long between sessions this time. Keep in touch, Malcolm.”

“I will,” Malcolm promised. “I’ll see myself out. Enjoy the game.”

Malcolm took stock of himself on the cab ride home. He felt great. Better than great, really. 100%. Ready to take on everything from his mother to Gil. So when he walked into his apartment to find his mother standing by the window, he was fine. Calm.

Until a small thermonuclear war broke out between him and his mother.

So much for serenity.


End file.
